2020 Modern Worker

There grows an emptiness
Sustained by robotic limbs
Input, output, input, output
The tapping of plastic keys.

What feels like endless servitude
Though willing are we to serve
For reasons deemed appropriate
By modern parental grades.

It must not be this easy –
Point and blame the elders,
Turn inwards and find the fear,
The exhausting comfort of the known.

20-20 a mountain that looms,
A command to face the foulest foe,
It lurks just beyond the light,
Haunting presence, hidden from sight.

We know it. We feel it.
It wears our skin and hair,
From a distance it mirrors our face,
Until we look up and meet the pupils.

Dark voids they lead us down,
Behind a silent theater,
The screen flickers on as the locks shut.
We see a figure behind a desk.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Input, output, input, output
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Input, output, input, output.

Mental Illness

I watched the light in her eyes fade,
My dear mother – strong and proud,
It came for her, the dark shroud
Her mind swallowed, left afraid.
Healthy in body yet an empty pit
Spirit drained from backwards sight,
Once so able and now unfit
When does one declare the end of a fight?
Dear mother, I beg you to be free –
Free from the haunting blurs
Free so we may return to as we were
You as my mother and I as your son.

The Early 20’s on New Year’s Eve (prose)

Ball drops to the sound of clinking glasses
Cheers to a new year
May we be blessed with good health and prosperity
Let the good times roll, let the money rain
One thing is for certain
We’ve wiped our slate clean.

What about us early 20’s
Confused and underutilized,
Each year hopefully another chance
to climb the ladder like everyone else –
But what if we don’t know which ladder to climb,
We know the abstract but not the concrete,
Won’t you break it down for us, break break it down
Little steps from A to B,
No money to waste, too much time to think.
We drinking too – Andre champagne
Watch the fireworks go boom boom boom
Imagine all the fair ladies and all the fine men
Dressed in sequined tuxedos, when do we become them?
Confident and reassured about their spot in the world,
Space defined, voice defined, out of their shells
While we trapped in these bodies, young, beautiful, blind
Patiently waiting for the time when we are dancing to a live band
Devouring hors d’oeuvre and swapping business cards.

Sleepy Days

An impressionist painting,
Sounds muffled
Sight blurred,
Time still,
An ache to shake off
The fairy dust and
Join the thousands of heartbeats
in a city full of dreams.

These are the days,
the sleepy days,
our mind wanders free,
without control
without guilt
We slip into a vortex
where we dream enough dreams
to fill a city where
no time is left
to dream.

Job Hunt

Some days I wish I was more
than a resume,
more than a comparison chart.

My ego is strong
but not strong enough to brag,
I am imperfect after all.

With little time and too few eyes,
We now depend on technology to find the weeds,
Even if it a flower in disguise.

Market saturated by talent,
Papers drenched in sweet perfume,
How do we sell character?

When the door shuts
Before we can wave and smile
Before our heart can speak?

Quiet

Character shoved under the rug,
Society high on new drug,
the drug of ego,
the drug of tongue,
the drug that blinds the mind
Dines on flesh yet drains the blood.

Race discrimination,
Sex discrimination,
What of age? What of introverts?
Did not our beloved authors write in solitude?
Did not our geniuses sit alone contemplating–
Reflecting within their own mind?

It was once said the world is a stage
and all are actors.
To succeed is to perform,
To hide is to be forgotten.
There are many who refuse to act–
Once a respected choice.

To be admired
We must be loud,
We must be bold,
We must appear omniscient
and rule by tongue,
by eloquent sentences judged by length
and be not I but We,
Here is where the quiet are forgotten,
Here is where the quiet are lost,
Their talents unwanted,
Their intelligence unseen,
Their passion underestimated,
When all ears hear only the elephant.

From the Darkest Corner

You’ve been damaged.
Broken and swept under a rug,
Diseased, contagious–
Unwanted mark.

Thrown to the lowest
Dungeons where each day,
Words masked as truth
Say ignore the pain.

In the darkest corner,
Friends become foes,
Quotes grow ill,
And the world turns strange.

In the darkest corner,
You are damaged–diseased,
Forgotten or pushed
To heal instantly.

An annoyance to them,
A reminder of suffering,
You become the boy
Who cried wolf again and again.

But this wolf won
Devoured your joy,
Yet no one else sees
the invisible tragedy.

In the darkest corner,
Have only yourself,
Your faith and time,
Trust in the phoenix.

From the pain and grief,
From the unlit tunnel
From the darkest corner,
From the ashes of renewal.

You shall fly again,
Perhaps with different wings,
and a broken heart,
But fly you shall alone.

Lend Me A Bucket

To whom do I share my woes
When ears hear not my sighs
Tongues too rough for heart.

To whom understands my woes
When I myself decline
to understand my jagged life.

Lend me not a shoulder
Nor a box of tissues,
Just a simple a bucket.

To which I pour my tears,
Soft thuds on the bottom,
The plastic hears my plea.

When full it lends reflection,
Gently delivered truth,
Released in form of woes.

LDR [long distance relationship]

First level setting: a cave and a candle,
Darkness doused in his scent and touch,
Her heart swallowed by its invisible clutch
Flickering fire small but loyal.

Second level fueled by desire and longing,
His lips, his hands, his presence
Without them your shadow sleeps with absence,
Nerves pounded by silent aching.

Third level the pesky wind of doubt
Surrounds the fire and whispers Hell
How many LDRs have been burnt out
Can you believe in fairytales?

Between third and fourth: a couple’s game,
Tests of depth and common grounds,
Dependent upon the hope they want the same–
to face love’s infamous hounds.

And if by luck or fate there is a fourth,
An understanding comes around,
No matter the distance or time, henceforth
Our hearts and souls are bound.